"Oswald Bastable - 01 - The Warlord Of The Air" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moorcock Michael)

them from his bridge and bellowing incoherently through a megaphone while a
half-caste mate seemed to be performing some peculiar, private dance of his own
amongst the seamen. The ship was the Maria Carlson bringing provisions and, I
hoped, some mail. She berthed at last and I began to push my way through the
coolies towards her, hoping she had brought me some letters and the journals
which I had begged my brother to send me from London.

The mooring ropes were secured, the anchor dropped and the gangplanks lowered
and then the half-caste mate, his cap on the back of his head, his jacket open,
came springing down, howling at the coolies who gathered there waving the scraps
of paper they had received at the hiring office. As he howled he gathered up the
papers and waved wildly at the ship, presumably issuing instructions. I hailed
him with my cane.

"Any mail?" I called.

"Mail? Mail?" He offered me a look of hatred and contempt which I took for a
negative reply to my question. Then he rushed back up the gangplank and
disappeared. I waited, however, in the hope of seeing the captain and confirming
with him that there was, indeed, no mail. Then I saw a white man appear at the
top of the gangplank, pausing and staring blankly around him as if he had not
expected to find land on the other side of the rail at all. Someone gave him a
shove from behind and he staggered down the bouncing plank, fell at the bottom
and picked himself up in time to catch the small seabag which the mate threw to
him from the ship.

The man was dressed in a filthy linen suit, had no hat, no shirt. He was
unshaven and there were native sandles on his feet. I had seen his type before.
Some wretch whom the East had ruined, who had discovered a weakness within
himself which he might never have found if he had stayed safely at home in
England. As he straightened up, however, I was startled by an expression of
intense misery in his eyes, a certain dignity of bearing which was not at all
common in the type. He shouldered his bag and began to make his way towards the
town.

"And don't try to get back aboard, mister, or the law will have you next time!"
screamed the mate of the Maria Carlson after him. The down-and-out hardly seemed
to hear. He continued to plod along the quayside, jostled by the coolies,
frantic for work.

The mate saw me and gesticulated impatiently. "No mail. No mail."

I decided to believe him, but called: "Who is that chap? What's he done?"

"Stowaway," was the curt reply.

I wondered why anyone should want to stow away on a ship bound for Rowe Island
and on impulse I turned and followed the man. For some reason I believed him to
be no ordinary derelict and he had piqued my curiosity. Besides, my boredom was
so great that I should have welcomed any relief from it. Also I was sure that